Beyond - Star Wars vs Aliens vs Stranger Things
by LNDeanFanFiction
Summary: A novice mercenary arrives at Johner's Point, a lawless place near the Outer Rim, in the hopes of starting a new life. He instantly regrets it. To avoid certain death, he signs his life away, indebting himself with a contract with an unknown client at an unknown system far, far away...
1. Chapter 1: Johner's Point

LN Dean FanFiction

**Chapter 1**

_Four years after the end of the Clone Wars on a planet with no official name…_

Rob Bannon was a dead man.

Warm blood mixed with cold rainwater streamed down his face as he frantically pushed his way through the busy streets of Johner's Point. It took three excruciating long weeks of interstellar travel to get there. During which, he was cramped into dark bellies of cargo transports, eating nothing but tasteless grey goop and sharing his personal space with dozens of other strangers. Bannon sold everything and spent his last credit to get here. It took him less than an hour to completely screw it all up.

The angry shouts of his pursuers grew louder as he searched for an escape route. The crowds were quickly thinning as the storm worsened. It wouldn't be long before he was the only one in the street, which would lead to his swift capture and inevitable death. A flash of lightning from above illuminated the darkness. In the light, he saw a side street from the main road, which seemed to be his best option. He turned his head to look behind him to see if anyone had caught up to him. The only thing he could see was his own distinctive size-thirteen boot prints, which would lead them right to him.

_I have to get inside._

Bannon accidentally pushed a dug street vendor to the ground as he turned the corner, who shook his weird leg-arm as he yelled profanities. "Sorry!" he called back. The rain rapidly turned into a torrential downpour so intense that he couldn't even see ten meters in front of him. He ran blindly through a gaggle of miners who were singing obnoxiously in the middle of the road.

The road suddenly turned ninety degrees, which forced him to rapidly change direction. The inertia of his heavy backpack awkwardly torqued his upper body which made his feet slip out from under him. He landed hard in the mud with a tremendous splash. The fall was painful, but he didn't have time to worry about it as the shouting drew closer. The deserted alleyway ahead was a dead end, but It was too late to backtrack to find another route. Bannon frantically wiped his muddy hair from his face, desperately looking for somewhere to hide. Bright neon signs that advertised dilapidated storefronts which illuminated the area around him.

_Come on…think!_

Nine meters to the right, Bannon saw a red neon sign that spelled out "B-A-R." It was the exact place he was supposed to look for when he first landed. It was unfortunate that he decided to make a short detour instead…. He scrambled to get up from his hands and knees, but nearly fell over a second time. With great effort, he caught himself and straight-lined towards his target. The doors crashed open with a loud thud. He tried to stop once he was inside, but instead, his muddy boots caused him to slide right into a wall. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he gasped painfully for air.

It took Bannon a few moments to catch his breath. The inside was just as dreary as the outside, but at least it was drier. A thin haze filled the air and a dull roar erupted from the patrons as they conversed amongst themselves, tending to their drinks and other addictions.

A crusty voice broke above the noise floor. "What the hell is going on!?"

Bannon straightened up and composed himself. "I am terribly sorry! It's just—it's raining outside."

A short human with dirty, mangled hair peered from behind the bar counter. "Yeah? No shit! Order a drink or get out!" the bartender yelled.

Bannon peeked through the window, but all he could see was rain hitting the glass.

_Might as well get a drink._

"I'll have a lager, if you don't mind," he said as he casually strolled over to the counter towards the bartender, unshouldering his heavy pack. It wasn't until he sat down at the counter that he noticed that the bartender was strapped into a motorized wheelchair. The wheelchair didn't seem to be a hinderance though, as the chair maneuvered with ease despite the limited space behind the counter.

The bartender returned and slammed a mug on the counter. "One lager special for the shithead covered in mud. Anything else I can get ya?" he asked sarcastically.

Bannon moved his messy wet hair out of his eyes and looked over his shoulder. "No, thank you, sir," he replied. He was about to take a sip of his drink when he changed his mind. "Actually, sir, there is something else."

The bartender raised an eyebrow exaggeratedly. "Go on…" he pressed his oversized lips together.

Bannon leaned forward and quietly spoke, "Any minute now, about four or five mercs are going to barge in through the front door and kill me." He pointed at his own face. "One of them did this to me, but man"—he grinned—"you should see what I did to him."

As if on cue, the door crashed open. "Looks like I'll get to see it sooner than ya hoped for." The bartender said flatly.

Bannon shrunk into his chair as compactly as he could. "Sir, I know you don't know me and couldn't care less what these goons are gonna do to me... But I respectfully request your assistance. If you help me out, I swear on my life I'll do _anything_ for you."

The bartender folded his arms across his chest, as if to contemplate the offer.

"Hey! There he is!" a livid voice called out.

Bannon's body tensed. "Please!" he whispered.

The bartender's face remained expressionless.

A heavy hand fell onto Bannon's shoulder. He spun around to see a scowling duro stared back at him with red eyes. The duro was flanked on either side by two scraggly-looking humans. "Is this the one?" the duro asked.

A rodian wearing an orange vest pushed the thugs aside. His snout was visibly swollen and one of his antennae was limp.

The rodian answered in Huttese, "This is the one." His words sounded robotic but were laced with rage. Faster than Bannon's mind could perceive it, the rodian unholstered his blaster. "I've been looking forward to this."

Bannon stared down the blaster's barrel, but surprisingly, he wasn't afraid anymore. He sighed loudly. "It took you long enough to find me. I bet it was hard after I put you into a submission hold with your little deely bopper there!" He felt the muzzle press against his bloody forehead. "They must be sensitive. I bet me tugging on it turned you on too! That's probably why you're so mad about it," he taunted, daringly pressing his head forward against the blaster.

The rodian met the resistance and sneered, "You will die now, human!"

"Do your worst, you green, slimy _bastard_!"

_Click—Clack!_

"I would reconsider yer choice, Greedo," the Bartender warned. Somehow, during the last few moments of chaos, the bartender quickly, but silently, moved his motorized chair out from behind the bar and pointed a very large double-barreled scattergun directly at the rodian's head. "This asshole belongs to me. He owes me a debt and I _will_ have it repaid in full."

Bannon smirked. The surprised terror in the eyes of the duro and his human companions was quite enjoyable. However, his amusement subsided once he noticed that Greedo's blaster was still in his face. The rodian seemed unmoved by the turn of events. Bannon looked at the bartender, who was entirely focused on Greedo. No one moved or said anything for several tense moments.

Finally, Greedo raised his blaster up towards the ceiling and took a step back from Bannon. "The day will come when your status with my employer won't protect you"—he glanced at Bannon—"or anyone else, Vriess."

"One day, Greedo, ye're gonna pull a blaster on someone, but they're gonna shoot ya first"—Vriess lowered his scattergun slightly as he spoke— "and then ya will finally get what's coming to ya." He gestured his head towards the exit. "Go on, _git_!"

Without a word, the would-be assailants slowly backed away towards the door. The bartender kept his scattergun aimed at them until they left. Once the door closed behind them, Bannon called out "Next time, I'll rip off that antenna and shove it up your—"

"Shut yer mouth!" Vriess yelled. "I did ya a favor there, and at no small personal cost." His face was redder than the duro's eyes. "I wasn't lying, ya owe me big time." He maneuvered his chair back behind the counter. By the time he returned, his scattergun had disappeared back into its hiding spot. "So, who are ya and what are ya good for?"

Bannon cleared his throat and straightened his posture. "I'm Rob Bannon." He placed his hands on the counter. "And I came here specifically to see you. They say that Vriess can get you any job in the galaxy. He's the ultimate match-maker for freelancers and mercenaries looking for contracts." He extended his right arm over the counter. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Vriess." They shook hands.

"Right then, what are yer skills, Bannon?"

Bannon explained his expertise—that when it came to bypassing any security system in the galaxy, he was the one who could do it better than anyone else. In a previous life, he was regarded as the best security systems engineer in the industry, designing custom-made Class-VII security doors, automated defenses, hyper accurate sensors, and impenetrable safe rooms for clients all over the Core Worlds. No one else could make a better infiltration specialist.

Vriess was unimpressed. "So, if ya were so good at yer job, why did ya give it up to be a petty lockpicker?" he countered.

Bannon's felt his face flush with anger.

_Calm down! Not again…_.

He took a deep breath, "That…is personal."

Vriess shrugged his shoulders. "Fine with me. So, let's cut to the chase." He pulled out a data-pad from the side of his chair. "Ya want to work as a freelancer, and ya owe me a debt"— he typed as he spoke—"I match contracts with contractors and I normally charge twenty percent of their payout for my services."

Bannon sat back into his chair and drank his lager, which was surprisingly light and refreshing. "Sounds like a deal!"

"I'm not finished!" Vriess scolded. "Ya _owe_ me. Therefore, to pay off yer debt, ya will spend the next three years working exclusively for me." He lowered the data-pad and stared Bannon directly in the eyes. "For fifty percent."

Bannon threw his arms up in disbelief. "That's unfair!"

"Well, boy, if ya don't like it, I'll just call yer good friend Greedo back here and ya can negotiate a better deal with him." Vriess challenged.

The two glared at each other. But, after considering his options, Bannon decided he had only one choice. He broke eye contact and huffed, "Fine." He extended his right arm again. "I accept your terms, sir." Once again, they shook hands.

"Excellent!" Vriess declared, his tone changing. "Let's get started then," he continued triumphantly. He typed aggressively on the data-pad. After a few moments, he handed it over to Bannon to see. "Well, my query returned over a hundred potential contracts in the local area."

Although he didn't quite understand what he was looking at, Bannon was taken aback at how easy the process was. He thought this part of the job would have had a more cloak-and-dagger feel to it.

"Now, when it says, 'local area,' what that really means is anywhere in the surrounding fifty-ish star-systems." Vriess leaned forward in his mobile chair. "Seeing as ya have just agreed to contract through me exclusively, I'll filter the search results to only reflect open contracts at Johner's Point." He retrieved the data-pad to update the listing. "Looks like ye're in luck! Right now, there is exactly one open contract requesting someone with yer skillset." He showed Bannon the data-pad.

Bannon frowned, as he rarely didn't understand what he saw. "How do you read this?"

After few minutes of explanation, he understood the user interface. The contract in question was actually a sub-contract that offered him a meager seven percent of the total payout upon completion of all the terms. Bannon would be working with other freelancers and mercenaries he had never met to perform a job on planet he had never heard of before—LV-426. No information was given about the client itself, or even what the total payout amount would be. Vriess explained the ambiguity was just a part of the trade, as it preserved the identities of clients and obscured the time, location, and identity of the target for obvious reasons. The only useful tidbit of information he was given from the contract's description was the time of departure—ASAP.

_This is stupid_….

"Sign me up, I guess." He decided to finish his lager in one go and slammed the mug on the table.

Vriess picked the tablet up off the counter and submitted the request. "Congrats, partner!" he exclaimed. "Ya have officially bided for yer first contract." He poured Bannon another drink. "This one's on the house—it's the weekly special." Vriess one for himself and raised the mug towards Bannon. "To us!"

_Partner? This deal seems rather one-sided._

Bannon raised his own glass in response. "To us." They both drank. To his surprise, this drink was even better than the last, which caused Bannon's mood to improve slightly. It was the first decent drink he had in weeks.

Vriess finished in one big gulp. "Good stuff! Now, this is for yer face." Vriess wrapped a bag of ice in a towel and plopped it on the counter. "Looks like the bleeding stopped. And, this is for yer hip, I won't be around to save yer ass next time." He then placed a blaster pistol and a belt holster onto the counter.

Bannon carefully picked up the blaster to inspect it.

"Ya've never held one of those before, have ya?"

"Never needed to." Bannon said flatly, as he intently studied the weapon with a mixture of fascination and skepticism.

The blaster's black protective coating had been worn away from years of use and abuse, exposing bare metal in some areas. The pistol-grip was wrapped in grey repair tape, but it filled his hand comfortably. The front muzzle was covered in a charred ozone residue that smelled like burnt meat. Although the firearm appeared to be perfectly functional, he would need to scrutinize its internal components and test fire it. He would never rely on equipment to save his life unless he personally vetted its quality.

Vriess also provided Bannon with a small pouch with one tibanna gas cartridge and four power packs that were good for up to 200 total shots, more than Bannon would ever need. Just one plasma bolt from a blaster pistol had enough energy to instantly vaporize unprotected soft tissues.

"Ya can have the blaster free of charge," Vriess said with a smile. "Nothing ends an argument like the sound of a scattergun slide being racked. Can't do that with a dinky, little blaster pistol," he said proudly. "And if that doesn't work, giving 'em the end of both barrels ought to do the trick."

Bannon nodded in thanks as he put the blaster into its worn leather holster. He decided that, despite his rough demeanor, Vriess wasn't so bad once you were on his good side. He thought that maybe this so-called partnership could work out after all, if only he could eventually talk Vriess down from fifty percent. Bannon sat in a contemplative silence as he iced his face while Vriess helped his overwhelmed server catch up on drink orders.

As Bannon started to feel the weight of his recent decisions, he was struck with the gut-wrenching feeling of unease. To his disbelief, on his first day at Johner's Point he had already signed up for a potentially profitable contract, albeit with unknown dangers and a fifty percent reduction in his cut. In his previous line of work, he knew every detail before he ever signed a contract. Also, he had never worked in an environment where he had to defend himself with a blaster. He was completely out of his element. "What am I in for, Vriess?" he finally asked anxiously.

Vriess laughed. "Relax, kid. It takes time for contract bids to be processed, maybe a couple of hours at the earliest. In the meantime, enjoy the present moment, ya never know what the next moment will bring." Vriess leaned forward. "Now, I have some advice for ya." He pointed a fat finger at Bannon. "Never—." A loud beep interrupted. "Wow!" he exclaimed. "I've never seen it go through that fast." He picked up the data-pad. "Yer contract has been accepted. Ya are to report to hangar 18-07. The access code is 1-9-8-6—don't forget it. Ya must depart _immediately_. Yer new friends take off in thirty minutes."

Bannon downed his drink, then stood up. His worry was instantly replaced by excitement. "This is happening!" he announced loudly. "Thank you, Vriess. Pleasure doing business with you. Once I get back, I'd like to discuss future percentages with you," he said in a calmer tone as he firmly placed his mug on the counter. He grabbed his gear bag and the blaster and left without another word.

* * *

Vriess waved Bannon off as he picked up the empty mug. As he quietly cleaned it with a wet rag, he thought to himself. Although the information was withheld, he knew just by the way the contract was written who the client was.

_That boy was probably gonna die_.

Vriess had sent many contractors to their death over the years. However, he had never liked any of them on a personal level. He was starting to like this kid. Bannon had spunk, but also had manners, which reminded Vriess of an old friend who had died long ago. An uneasy feeling took hold of him as he stared off into oblivion thinking about that last job. That job went wrong. Wrong in every way possible…

* * *

Author's Notes

Han shot first. Still waiting for Disney to fix that scene…


	2. Chapter 2: The Hangar

LN Dean FanFiction

**Chapter 2**

_Twenty-three minutes later…_

Bannon's footsteps echoed through the dimly lit corridors of the outer reaches of the spaceport as he frantically searched for Hangar 18-07. The further he went from the central hub of the spaceport, the more isolated the hallways were. Now, after travelling a whole kilometer, he was all alone. After passing by Hangar 18-05, Bannon came to a bend in the corridor.

What he saw on the other side caused his heart to skip a beat. On the opposite end of the corridor was, of all the wicked people in this forsaken place, the same blasted duro from earlier. From the looks of his tactical gear and weaponry, the blue-skinned humanoid was ready for a job—or a battle.

The duro was turned away from Bannon and appeared to be talking to someone who was obscured by nearby cargo containers. Scanning the area around the duro, Bannon realized that the bastard was standing in front of the entrance to Hangar 18-06. Looking further down the hall beyond the duro was his destination, Hangar 18-07.

_Perfect…_

Bannon was running late. While considering his options, he recalled what Greedo said to Vriess less than an hour ago. Vriess had status and that status apparently protected Vriess and his associates from trouble. Bannon peered around the corner again. A stupid idea formed in his mind, but it was the only one he had. His frustration built further once he realized he was also running out of time.

Bannon decided that the blaster Vriess gave him would serve him better outside of his gear bag. After hastily securing the holster in place, it hung awkwardly. A thicker belt would have held it up more comfortably. At least if this plan proved to be as stupid as he thought it was, he had a plan B. Bannon took a deep breath and straightened his posture.

_Here goes nothing_.

Bannon turned the corner and walked down the hall as casually as he could, keeping close to the far wall. The blaster bounced against his thigh with each step. This created a noticeable slapping sound that apparently caught the attention of the duro, who then turned towards Bannon.

The surprise that flashed across the duro's face was quickly replaced by anger. Bannon held his gaze with the duro, but couldn't help but grin from the absurdity of the situation he found himself in.

"Are you enjoying yourself, _scum_?" the duro asked threateningly.

Bannon came to a halt and brushed his jacket aside so that the duro could clearly the blaster on his hip. "I always do," he challenged.

The duro seemed unconcerned by this gesture, but the fact that he hadn't killed Bannon yet was a good sign. Maybe this plan wasn't as stupid as he first suspected. Bannon decided to press his luck a little further.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" his grin grew slightly. "It seems like it was just a few hours ago, but I can't even remember your name now."

"I never told you my name, human," the duro said, sounding confused.

_Sarcasm doesn't seem to register with this one. _

Bannon shook his head. "Look man, I know you can't touch me and I'm not foolish enough to provoke you. So, let's just be friends. My name is Bannon, what's yours?"

The duro's eyes narrowed. "I am Torden," he said as he moved his right hand out of view behind him. "But you _are_ a fool to think you are safe." The right hand suddenly came back into view.

Bannon flinched reflexively towards his blaster. He cursed himself an instant later when he realized that Torden was only holding a communicator.

Torden and the human behind him laughed. "Jumpy, jumpy Bannon. So nervous!" Torden jeered. The duro gave his companion a look, who nodded silently in return. "I'll see you again," he said as he walked away from Bannon towards the entrance to the corridor. "_Soon_."

Bannon maintained visual of Torden as he turned his back and walked away and exhaled deeply once he had disappeared around the corner. Torden's human companion remained where he was and still watched him. "You got a problem, buddy?" Bannon demanded. Torden's companion said nothing but kept watching. Bannon shook his head and resumed walking towards Hangar 18-07.

_That actually went better than I expected…._

Bannon came to the end of the hallway and stood in front of a sealed cargo bay door. It was large enough for a rancor to walk through and looked strong enough to hold one off. Next to the cargo bay door was a smaller door with a keypad. A small LED blinked red indicating that the door was locked. Bannon checked his watch—he was seven minutes late. Cursing under his breath, he entered the code.

_1-9-8-6_—_Beep!_

The LED changed color to green and blinked three times. A mechanical noise indicated that the locking mechanism disengaged. However, when Bannon went to open the door, it didn't budge. Perplexed, he tried the code a second time. Again, it blinked in compliance—there was no accompanying mechanical noise, because it had already disengaged. The door still wouldn't budge. Bannon cursed loudly and banged his fist on the door several times. There was no response.

_I don't have time for this!_

Enraged, he brought his leg up to kick the door in. But, in the middle of shifting his momentum, the door suddenly swung open.

"Where do you think you're going, sweetheart?" a stern man wearing camouflaged fatigues asked with exaggerated cheer.

Bannon caught himself, landing awkwardly. He attempted to recompose himself but couldn't hide his embarrassment. "I'm here for the contract," he replied apprehensively.

"What contract?" The other asked impatiently.

As Bannon formed a response in his mind, he glanced at the bright blue patch on the black hat worn by the other man. In bright white embroidery were the words "U.S.C.M. U.S.S. SULACO". It clashed strongly with the rest of the man's subdued attire.

Bannon decided to just get to the point. "The contract for LV-426?" he asked cautiously "I was hired as the infiltration specialist and—"

"Infiltration specialist!?" the other man asked sarcastically. "So, you're supposed to be some kind of an expert?" He pointed towards the keypad. "This is a _simple_ security system." The man crossed his arms over his chest, letting the door rest on his back as he chewed on a large, unlit cigar. "But your expert infiltration method was to try and kick the damn door down?" He widened his eyes, which contrasted strongly with his darker skin tone. "Any one of my guys coulda done that!"

Bannon tried to explain himself but was again immediately cut off as soon as he tried to get a word out.

"There I was, expecting to open this door to see you with some kinda fancy gizmo with some wires and shit hacking this door lock open." The man raised his voice. "Instead, what I saw was some dumbass flying through the air like he some kinda damn action hero!" He stepped forward and placed his hands on his hips as he stared Bannon down. "Why do we need you?" The man's voice was impressively loud.

Bannon didn't know how to respond. But, before he could even think of a way to recover from that, another voice came from behind the door.

"You were holding the door shut, you big jackass!" said a cleanshaven man with pale skin and styled light brown hair. The second man wore metallic tags on a chain that draped over his olive drab undershirt. The trousers he wore were in the same camouflage pattern as the first man. "Our candidate-for-hire here is backed by the one of the best vendors in the local systems." The second man said, reading from the same type of data-pad used by Vriess. "That must mean he's good." He looked up towards Bannon. "Isn't that right?"

Now both men watched Bannon incredulously.

Thinking of a response, Bannon took his pack off his shoulders and placed it on the floor next to him. "Yes, that's correct." He sensed another challenge coming. "What else does your data-pad say about me?"

"Aside from that," the second man replied casually. "Nothing. No picture, no description, no name, not even a single rating of Zelp—what's the deal with that?"

Bannon recalled what Vriess told him about clients and figured he could use that to his advantage here. "Well, the way I see it, if someone like Vriess vouches for me," Bannon began. "Then clearly I must be the best at what I do." The two men seemed unconvinced by this logic. "But, it's obvious that fact isn't good enough for you fine gentlemen." Bannon crossed his left arm over his chest and placed his right hand on his chin as if to contemplate his next words.

The audience waited expectantly for an elaboration.

"Now, let me ask you," Bannon began again. "Why would an infiltration specialist disclose anything that could reveal tricks of the trade or disclose personally identifiable information?" Bannon gave a smile. "Wouldn't compromising myself or my clients make me a terrible security systems expert? Would you want my future clients to know about our private business dealings?"

The two men exchanged looks with each other. "I suppose that makes sense." The man with the data-pad acknowledged with a lighter tone than before. "I mean, look at you! You're clearly a busy man, hot off the last job with fresh blood and bruises. You definitely look and sound like you know what you're doing."

Bannon nodded in appreciation. "Thank—"

The man with the data-pad cut Bannon off, "But, you still couldn't open this door." He stated pointing at the keypad. The other man clapped his hands together and let out a loud laugh.

Bannon threw his arms up in frustration and was about to retort when he was once again interrupted.

"I'm kidding, man!" The man with the data-pad extended his right hand to Bannon. "You can call me Hicks."

Bannon exhaled to calm down and then shook Hick's hand. "Rob Bannon." Hicks nodded. Bannon glanced at the other man. He glared back at Bannon in silent disapproval.

Hicks patted the man's shoulder. "This hardass is Apone," he said. "But you can just call him 'Sarge.'" Hicks put his hand up to his mouth and whispered, "Only people he likes can call him Apone."

Bannon shrugged. "So, you're definitely not Imperials, but I'm still getting a military vibe from you two."

Apone took the cigar out of his mouth. "Prior service," he said flatly, turning away without another word.

Bannon shook his head and sighed in frustration. He had dealt with difficult people in his previous line of work, but it was obvious that Apone was a professional hardass.

"Hey, don't take it personally, pal," Hicks said. "Why don't you grab your go-bag and come on in. We still have to get some small details sorted out before we officially hire you."

Inside the hangar, Bannon noticed several other people wearing different configurations of the same basic olive drab or jungle-camouflaged fatigues. Ear-piercing beeps emanated from a large repulsorlift loader as it slowly maneuvered into position to interlock with a large pallet. In the background, more crewmembers performed pre-flight checks on a large, green dropship.

_If that bulky wagon was supposed to be our ride out of here, it would defy all known laws of physics._

Bannon hurried over towards Hicks who was standing off to the side by empty shelving units attached to the furthest wall. Some of the other mercs took notice of Bannon's arrival.

"Hey, _mira_, who's this asshole?" called out a woman with a bright, red bandana around her head. She and the other mercs gossiped loudly amongst themselves.

"Looks like you're making friends already, pal," Hicks said as Bannon came to a halt next to him, his face was buried into the data-pad. "We have some final things to discuss."

Apone's voice clearly bellowed through the noise. "Let's wrap it up, the boss is waiting for us! Dust off in ten!"

The crew picked up their pace to meet Apone's deadline, which was ambitious judging by how much they still had to load.

"You do your job as it's spelled out in the contract and we'll do ours," Hicks began. "Obey commands from Apone or the boss and don't get yourself killed. Do all of that, and you'll be paid upon our return."

Bannon stepped closer to Hicks, who kept working on the data-pad. "So, when do I get to meet your boss?"

"Our boss will see you when she's good and ready." Hicks responded flatly as he briefly looked up at Bannon. "For now, you'll deal with me—just sit tight for a sec."

Bannon fidgeted with his hands as he quickly grew bored waiting for Hicks. He decided to pass the time by taking a closer look facility's infrastructure. The hangar's haphazardly constructed interior was comprised of mass-produced components that were cut, shaped, and installed by hand.

In addition to the cargo and personnel doors that accessed the corridor, there was also an overhead door that took up most of the ceiling's surface area. It was hardly large enough for the shuttle to squeeze through. The door's sliding panels were retracted down the side of rear wall, exposing the hangar to the night sky.

Rows of floodlights were fastened to the top of the other three walls. Roughly half of the bulbs were functional, and the ones that were turned on lit up the interior space with harsh, yellow light. The crisscrossing light intersected in such a way that every object in the room cast shadows from three distinct directions.

The sound of Hicks clearing his throat broke Bannon's concentration. "Alright Bannon, lets wrap up the formal stuff. Now, I presume that you don't have enough food or water in that little bag of yours to last you more than a few days, which means that you'll need to replenish those supplies with some of ours—right?"

Bannon grimaced. He knew exactly where this discussion was heading but was in no position to do anything about it. "That's correct."

Hicks chuckled. "Well, then that's gonna come out of your cut." He tapped the data-pad. "May I also assume that you don't have medical supplies, comm equipment, personal exo-atmospheric equipment, or toilet paper?"

"No," Bannon muttered. "I don't have any of those." He clenched his fists "Is that coming out of my cut, too?"

"Correctomundo!" Hicks jeered, tapping the data-pad several more times.

Bannon rubbed his eyes as he spoke. "That's just great—real great." He let out a deep sigh, as he calmed himself down. "I'm sure that reduces my payout by half."

"Just standard practice, brother," replied Hicks.

Before Bannon could reply, a new voice called out from across the room. "Hey Sarge! You better come over here."

Hicks turned his attention past Bannon and frowned. "So, Bannon, if you accept our terms, please initial all the checked boxes and sign at the bottom," he stated, handing the data-pad over to Bannon without looking at him.

Bannon sighed but complied with the instructions. "So how exactly do I get paid, anyways?" he asked as he scrolled through over a dozen pages on the data-pad.

"Once we return to Johner's Point, we'll wire the credits to your guy, Vriess. From there it's between you and him."

"Hey, Sarge!" The other voice called out again, much louder this time.

"What is it, Hudson!?" Apone yelled back in response.

"I think we might have a problem over here!" Hudson replied.

At that moment, the floodlights cut out. For an instant, the darkness was so absolute that Bannon couldn't even see his own hand in front of him. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the low light of the stars above. The silence caused by the unexpected darkness was pierced by the terrible groaning of ceiling door's motor as it strained to move the heavy metal panels. Slowly, the panels slid across their track as if it were the closing lid of a sarcophagus, sealing Bannon with the mercenaries to face the same fate together.

11


	3. Chapter 3: Trial by Fire

LN Dean FanFiction

**Chapter 3**

_Three seconds later…_

"What the _**fuck**_, Hudson!?" demanded Apone.

Emergency lights slowly flickered on, showering the room with a weak, red glow.

"It wasn't me, alright!?"

The intercom activated with a loud clicking sound. "This is the Chief of Spaceport Security," the nasally voice began. "I have been made aware that you are harboring a wanted man."

Despite the low lighting, Bannon caught Apone's glare from across the hangar.

"You will open the cargo door and hand him over immediately!" the voice continued. "Failure to comply with my commands will be met with force."

"Come get some, _**puto!**_" shouted the woman with the red bandana.

"Can it!" Apone ordered as he marched over towards the wall where the intercom's speaker was.

"Look, Hicks. I—" Bannon began.

"Bannon, forget it. You're with us now," said Hicks. He looked away from Bannon and shouted, "We need him, Apone!"

"I know," Apone said as he pushed the button and leaned close to the microphone. "This is Apone speaking." The anger in his voice was apparant. "I don't give a damn what this wanted man did. He's ours until we're done with him."

"This is your final warning!" the voice became shrill. "Open the door or we will open it for you!"

Apone laughed into the microphone. "Alrighty then. If you really wanna play that game, you gotta be one dumb motherfucker! _**Come in and get some!**_"

"So be it…." The intercom switched off.

Blinding light poured into the hangar from corridor as the cargo doors slowly slid open.

"Hudson!" shouted Apone. "Secure that door!"

Hudson jogged over to the door control panel, but before he could get there, an armed man burst through the widening passageway.

Hudson froze. "Easy, man. Easy!"

The man stared down Hudson. Hudson flinched suddenly. The man brought his blaster to bare on Hudson in response.

A loud shot rang through the hangar space as pink mist burst from the back of the man's head. The man's body seized up and toppled backwards with a thump.

"Move it, ladies!" Apone yelled, with his sidearm still at the ready to cover the corridor entrance. "Arm up! Hudson, close that fucking door!"

"Let's go, Bannon!" shouted Hicks. "Over there. Go!"

Bannon grabbed his bag and followed Hicks over towards a large pallet of yellow plastic barrels.

"Vasquez," Hicks said. "You and Drake keep pretty boy here safe. He's not allowed to die until he completes his contract." Vasquez nodded.

Hicks ran off.

Drake passed by Hicks. He carried with him a small duffle bag. "Here," he said as he withdrew a short-barreled rifle from the bag. He threw it towards Vasquez, who caught it with one arm. "Try not to shoot your fingers off."

Vasquez inspected the weapon. "These things are fuckin' tiny," she said disapprovingly. "How many mags?"

"Ten mags of nine millimeter rounds in the bag," Drake responded, dropping a duffle bag on the floor between them. "Four hundred and eighty rounds between us."

Vasquez frowned. "That won't last long." She braced her weapon over a barrel to cover the door.

Three more goons suddenly breached the hangar. They shot their blasters wildly from the hip as they ran.

Vasquez was ready for them. Her upper body muscles tensed as the weapon's recoil pushed the stock hard into her shoulder.

Seconds later, all three hostiles lay motionless on the floor. Vasquez, stern-faced and calm, dumped the magazine and loaded another.

"God damn it!" Apone yelled. "Why is that door still open, Hudson?"

"It won't close, Sarge!" Hudson whined. "I'm locked out." He turned away from the console, his face slightly pale but very sweaty. "I hear more coming in the corridor!"

"Hold the line, Marines!" Apone commanded.

Bannon looked over the barrels just in time to see over a dozen henchmen take up position behind heavy cargo containers. An instant later, intense blaster fire poured through the fully open cargo door. Bannon ducked behind the barrels as plasma bolts soared overhead and impacted the far wall.

"Return fire!" bellowed Apone, who shot his side arm while he backstepped behind cover.

The sound of combat and the smell of gunpowder overwhelmed Bannon's senses as he drew his blaster. _Guess it's time to test this out…._

Bannon leaned around his barrel and shot his blaster for the first time. He grinned as it functioned as intended.

His grin vanished instantly as blaster fire forced him to retreat behind cover. Several bolts impacted the ground and barrels around him with loud thuds.

"Damn it!" Bannon yelled. "This isn't going well, is it?"

"No, it's not!" Drake said. "We need more firepower. I told Hicks before we left that these SMGs were no good. We shoulda brought the smart guns."

"I need another mag!" Vasquez yelled.

A foul chemical odor abruptly caught Bannon's attention. He quickly covered his face with his undershirt and shuffled away towards Drake and Vasquez.

Bannon grabbed Drake's arm and asked, "What the hell's inside these barrels?"

Drake paused for a moment to smell the air. He became concerned and shouted. "It's the oxidizer for rocket propellant." He covered his own face. "It won't explode, but it's toxic as fuck." Drake patted Vasquez on the shoulder. "We need to relocate, _**now!**_"

"I'll cover you." Vasquez responded, retying her bandana to mask her face. "Take pretty boy with you."

Bannon and Drake formed up behind Vasquez, who had hot-swapped a full magazine into her weapon. She looked towards them and asked, "Ready?"

Bannon's adrenaline spiked, causing his hands to jitter. He would have to run over ten meters to the cargo loader while being shot at.

"Go!" Vasquez shouted as she leaned out and laid down covering fire.

Bannon sprinted as fast as he could. Drake was right behind him, shooting from the hip as he ran. Everything happened so quickly that before he knew it, he was safely across the kill-zone. He and Drake joined Hicks and another merc wearing a flight suit behind the cargo loader.

"Haul ass, Vasquez!" Drake yelled. Together, he and Hicks covered Vasquez as she covered the distance. Blaster bolts passed by her singing her shirt.

She dove behind the loader, landing next to Drake.

Drake laughed. "We're fucking lucky man. Self-sealing barrels are a godsend. We only got a whiff of that shit!"

Vasquez pulled the bandana down from her nose. "Each second you inhale that shit is five years off your life."

"Well, at this rate I figure I got negative sixteen years left to live." Drake's cheerful face suddenly became bright red as his eyes widened. "Fuck!" He kicked the loader with enough force to dent the metal panel. "I left the goddamn ammo bag back there."

Bannon's heart skipped a beat. He realized he forgot his bag too.

Apone's voice was easily discernable over the gunshots and death screams. "Hudson! You still alive?"

"Yeah, but not for long, man!" Hudson said. "There's more of them coming!"

The volume of blaster fire spraying into the hangar was now too intense for any of the mercenaries to effectively return fire.

Drake fired single shots blindly over the top of the loader.

Vasquez cursed in a language unfamiliar to Bannon.

At this point, the mercenaries could offer no rebuttal if the henchmen decided to blitz into the hangar. At this rate, it would all be over in just a few more moments.

"Hey, Bannon," said Hicks. "You wouldn't happen to have any tricks up your sleeve, would you?"

Bannon judged the distance from his bag to the door control panel. "Yes…" he began.

In the side pocket of his bag was a gadget of his own invention—a "Widget." Its universal connectors and custom software allowed him to commandeer any system or device in the known galaxy. It was essentially a miniature super-computer and was more than capable to hijack the network of a backwater spaceport.

Unfortunately, his bag was in the middle of an impassable warzone, while the door control console was twice as far away.

"Yes, but it might not be possible," Bannon said. "My gear might as well be on the other side of the planet."

"Well shit," Hicks said, looking down towards his feet. He sighed deeply. "Then it seems like we're down to one last option." His face hardened as he turned to face the pilot and yelled, "Hey, Ferro! _**Ferro!**_"

"What?!" Ferro replied.

"Call in an orbital strike, danger close!" commanded Hicks. "Twenty meters directly west of the shuttle's current position."

"That's suicide!" she yelled back. "That puts us inside the projected kill radius too!"

"Just do it!" Hicks countered. "It's our only option."

Ferro grimaced as she typed onto a small data-pad attached to her wrist. A moment later, she groaned in frustration. "I can't get through to the _Sulaco_! The roof is too thick. It's blocking our comms."

Hicks slammed his fist onto the ground. "Shit!" He looked back at Bannon, his expression blank. "We might be fucked on this one, man."

Seeking inspiration, Bannon carefully peeked around the loader. He saw a handful of bodies lying on the ground and numerous heavily armed and well-fortified aggressors. In the middle of the hostile's formation was a forklift with an elevated pallet. The pallet was loaded with several yellow plastic barrels.

Bannon smiled. He yelled at Hicks to get his attention and said, "I have an idea."

Bannon broke down his plan for Hicks, who also started to grin. "I like it," he said. "You sure you wanna do this?"

"No," Bannon said. He guessed his odds of survival were less than ten percent. "But let's do it anyways."

"Copy that," said Hicks as he finished loading shells into his shotgun.

Bannon prepared himself. "Now!"

Hicks sat up and bellowed, "_**Covering fire!**_"

The words "Covering fire" echoed across the hangar. Training overcame survival instinct as every mercenary popped up from safety and fired their weapons as fast as possible.

Bannon joined them. It was exhilarating feeling the recoil and watching the plasma bolt impact his target. But he wasn't doing enough damage to the barrels. Their self-sealing inner layer was too effective.

"Drake! Vasquez!" Bannon yelled. "Shoot the yellow barrels!"

"Copy that!"

"Right on!"

Drake and Vasquez shifted their fire onto the center barrel.

The sealant could no longer maintain its integrity as the pressure vessel ruptured violently. Oxidizer quickly dispersed in all directions, showering all those in proximity to the barrel.

The toxic fluids forced several of the hostiles from cover. A barrage of bullets cut them down as they fled. The tide of battle had shifted towards the mercenaries' favor.

_It's do or die!_

Bannon broke out into a sprint towards his bag. He swooped it up while maintaining his momentum and pivoted in a wide arc towards Hudson, who was still by the control panel.

He was already hallway across the distance when Bannon saw him.

A pair of red eyes. A deep scowl. A large blaster-rifle. All pointed directly at Bannon.

Torden fired his blaster. "Die!"

The bolt passed so close to Bannon's head that he could hear it displace the atmosphere as it whizzed by.

Bannon dove to his right, narrowly evading a second headshot. "Shit!" He held onto his bag by the strap as he lost his footing and fell hard on his tailbone.

Torden laughed. "Pathetic!" Bannon looked up as Torden slowly centered the blaster's sites on Bannon's chest.

Bannon was out of options. He heaved the bag up right as Torden pulled the trigger. The force of the bolt's impact felt like a heavy punch through the bag.

Several more bolts slammed into the bag as Bannon reached for his own blaster.

Bannon brought the blaster up and pushed it forward. He exhaled deeply, then gently squeezed the trigger.

The blaster recoiled uncontrollably. An instant later a red plasma bolt connected with Torden's right shoulder. The bolt penetrated the soft tissue straight to the bone, shattering it.

Torden instantly dropped his blaster-rifle and yelped in pain as his arm hung limp. He recoiled backwards.

Bannon dragged the smoldering remains of his bag as he scrambled back to his feet towards the control panel.

"Move!" Bannon crashed into Hudson, who in turn smashed headfirst into the wall.

Hudson groaned in pain. "Goddamn it! I hope you know what you're doing, Bannon. Otherwise it's game over for us."

"Shut up and let me work!" Bannon unzipped the side pocket and retrieved the Widget. Miraculously, it was undamaged. "Shuffle over a bit—" Bannon pointed at the control console's maintenance port—"I need access to the side there."

Using a utility knife, Bannon popped the side panel off, which exposed inner circuitry and universal ports. He attached the Widget's leads to the through-holes of the microcontroller.

The Widget's pre-programmed keystroke routine bypassed the firewall and reprogramed the system's controller. From there, the Widget autonomously worked on hijacking all the other devices in the network. Within three seconds, Bannon had complete control of all the spaceport's networked systems.

Bannon smiled. He disconnected the leads and wirelessly interfaced with the spaceport's life support system to change sensor variables. With the new variables saved, the life support system believed a fire had broken out in the corridor. The cargo doors started to close. White foam sprayed from the corridor's ceiling, covering everything in the hallway in a half-meter layer of tacky goop.

Apone's voice sounded off above the fire alarm, "Advance!"

The mercs broke out from cover. They formed a firing line and steadily advanced on the henchmen as the cargo doors slowly slid shut.

Surviving henchmen that were not immediately gunned down discarded their weapons and retreated.

Bannon holstered his blaster. The fire alarm cut out as the doors sealed.

_Easy._

Bannon felt a pat on his back. It was Hicks.

"You crazy sonova bitch! You fuckin' did it!"

"Way to go, new guy!" Drake shouted from afar.

"Alright, quit screwing around!" shouted Apone. "Casualty check! Who's not breathing?"

"No one's dead yet, Sarge," said Hudson. "All thanks to me—the ultimate badass!"

"Oh yeah?" Drake chuckled, "Well, I recall you squealing like a little girl right before Apone saved yo ass!"

"Lock it up, ladies!" Apone commanded. "We need to leave, _**now!**_"

The mercenaries quickly gathered the supplies that remained intact from the firefight. Bannon hurried over to retrieve what remained of his bag. He was certain that most of his belongings were charred or melted beyond use. It would have to be sorted out later.

"Bannon!" Apone hollered as he walked towards Bannon. "Are you gonna open the ceiling door or what?"

"Sure thing." Bannon fiddled with the Widget. The ceiling door's motor groaned in compliance as the door slid open. "So Sarge, what did you think of _**those**_ door opening skills?"

Apone maintained a neutral expression as he quietly replaced his spent cigar. Once he finished lighting the fresh cigar, he finally said, "You can call me Apone."

"What about me?" Hudson asked.

"No, I don't like you."

"Welcome to Bravo Team," said Hicks. "You're officially part of the crew now."

Bannon felt as if a huge weight had lifted off his chest. He thought that this might actually all work out afterall.

The dropship's engines wailed as they primed for liftoff. Minutes later, it lurched off the ground and roared into orbit. As the vehicle ascended higher and higher into darkness, the violent turbulence subsided to dull vibrations. They were now in space.

In space, no one can hear you scream….

13


	4. Chapter 4: Arrival

**Chapter 4: Arrival**

_Two hours later aboard the Sulaco…_

Outer space smelled of charred meat and hot metal.

The _Sulaco's_ air scrubbers did their best to filter away the atmospheric gases leaked in from the dropship's arrival. Even as he walked through the ship's corridors with Hicks, Bannon couldn't quite escape the smell.

"So, let me get this straight," Bannon said. "A long time ago, your ancestors colonized the Unknown Regions. Then, thousands of years later, you were attacked by a droid fleet without warning?"

"That's right," Hicks replied. "They laid siege to the outer colonies. Our regiment was part of the expeditionary force sent to repel them. After succeeding, we received a distress call from Fleet Command. It turned out that the invasion force we encountered was a diversion. The entire fleet was mobilized and our homeworld was virtually defenseless. The droids came in hard and fast."

"Hicks, I'm sorry… I—"

Hicks held up his hand to silence Bannon. "It doesn't matter. It's ancient history now."

Bannon nodded and said, "So, when do I get to meet the boss?"

Hicks turned to open the hatchway. "Soon. Very soon."

The door promptly slid open. On the other side stood a woman with short curly brown hair wearing a faded blue flight suit. She glared at Hicks and crossed her arms.

"What the fuck happened down there, Hicks?"

Hicks covered his face with his palm and groaned. "Shit."

"You and I are going to have words about your career later." Ripley turned her attention to Bannon. She sized him up before saying, "I take it that _**you**_ are Rob Bannon."

Bannon nodded and replied apprehensively, "Yes, ma'am."

"Don't give me that 'ma'am' crap. My name is Ripley," She extended her arm. "Ellen Ripley. I'm your boss."

Bannon accepted the firm handshake. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ripley."

Ripley's eyes widened as she said, "I heard about the stunt you pulled, Bannon."

Bannon glanced at Hicks, who shrugged his shoulders, then looked back to Ripley. "I can't tell if you think that's a good or a bad thing," Bannon replied.

"It's a stupid thing," Ripley said after a several tense moments. "You have balls, Bannon. I'll give you that. You'll need them where we're going."

"Thank you," Bannon said, relieved he hadn't already blown his contract. If Ripley dumped him back at Johner's Point now, he'd die the moment he stepped off the shuttle. Still, Bannon was tired of not knowing what he was hired to do, so he decided to take a risk. "Ripley, I need to know. Where are we going, what are we doing, and who are we doing it for?"

Ripley said nothing as she considered the questions. Finally, she replied with, "Have you ever worked with the Empire?"

"I—" Bannon's heart skipped a beat—"I had a falling out with the galactic government shortly after the Empire took over." Bannon's mind raced. "It was a bad break up—really, really bad. That's why I came all the way out _**here!**_ To get away."

"Well then, I have some bad news for you," Ripley said, her glare replaced with a slight grin. "They're our client."

Bannon groaned loudly. "Fuck." Since the end of the war and the fall of the Republic, the Empire set about conquering new systems and suppressing rebellions. Wherever the Empire went, death followed.

Exasperated, Bannon looked down at the heap of junk resting in his arms. If he was going to survive a contract with the Empire, he need would better equipment. His mind set to work on what he would need, but he lacked the materials required to obtain them.

"Well, if that's the case—" Bannon looked back up at Ripley—"I'm going to need full access to your tech lab and all your spare electronics to make new equipment for myself."

Ripley lifted her chin up slightly. "Is that so?"

Bannon nodded. "If our client is the Empire, we'll need what I'm making. My Widget could hijack your entire ship if I'm sitting still long enough. But I get the feeling stealth and patience aren't your forte."

Ripley considered the demand for a moment. "Alright, Bannon. You can have what you need for this mission. If what you make actually helps, then I'll even go as far as not taking the cost of the materials out of your cut."

Bannon smiled. "Thank you, Ripley. I won't let you down."

Ripley nodded and stepped aside, gesturing Bannon and Hicks to proceed.

Bannon and Hicks obliged. They made it a few meters down the corridor before Ripley turned and shouted, "Oh, and Bannon—I you fuck up my ship I'll blow you out the goddamn airlock."

_Six weeks later in hyperspace…._

Darth Vader silently gazed out of the forward observation ports of the _Adamantine's_ bridge.

Behind him, a strained but motivated bridge crew worked diligently under the watchful eye of an uneasy Captain.

"Threshold imminent," the nav officer called out. "Thirty seconds."

"Understood," the Captain answered firmly. Vader sensed the man's apprehension. "All combat stations, report!"

"Starfighter squadrons are ready to deploy!"

"Sensors active!"

"Turrets on stand-by!"

"Deflector shields online!"

"Very well," said the Captain. "All crew, stand-by for emergence."

Seconds stretched on into eternity before the Star Destroyer stabilized within realspace and the streaming kaleidoscope of lights from hyperspace travel faded to black. Through the viewport, the only thing visible to the naked eye was a dim star.

The Captain's voice pierced the silence, "Execute!"

The deck crew responded immediately, performing their assigned tasks as they had a thousand times over.

"Planet detected!" the sensor operator called out.

"Show me," responded the Captain.

The tactical screen displayed an image of a ringed gas giant. The distant star slowly rose above the hazy globe, revealing raging storms that were almost frozen in time. Three small moons hung in space around the cold world.

Vader's patience wore thin as it seemed that they had found yet another dead end. Failure would not be tolerated for much longer.

On the tactical screen, a fourth moon slowly revealed itself from behind the gas giant.

"Captain!" the sensor operator shouted excitedly. "I found something else."

"What is it, Ensign?"

"Sir, I've detected an acoustic beacon. It—" she paused for a few moments to analyze her readouts— "It repeats in intervals of twelve seconds, just like the intel said it would. This is LV-426."

The Captain exhaled with relief. "Excellent. Conduct a full scan of that moon. I want to know everything about it, down to its last desolate particle."

"Yes, Captain."

Vader reached out into the Force. He wanted to feel it. To know what his master so desperately sought. What he discovered was utterly alien to him. Absolute desolation. The moon resided in a void so profound, the Force ceased to exist entirely. "Fascinating."

The Captain approached cautiously. "Lord Vader…"

Vader broke away from his trance. "That is the system, Captain. Proceed."

Waking up from cryo felt worse than any hangover Bannon ever had in his entire life.

When Bannon sat up in the hibernation pod, the room around him span out of control until he passed out. He woke up again to see Apone standing over him, chewing cigar and grinning. "Want me to fetch you your slippers?" Apone said smugly. Though that was only fifteen minutes ago, it seemed like an entire day already passed.

Before going under, Bannon confidently believed that he would easily adjust to the after-effects caused by such a long, artificially induced slumber. He was wrong. He slumped over a metal table as bright white light punished him for his hubris. He pushed a plate of cold corn bread and grits far enough away as not to torment him with their smells. After twenty minutes of violently vacating his stomach, he had no appetite.

Bannon slowly sipped cup of sugary coffee as he observed the others around him from a distance. It was apparent that they had a much higher tolerance to post-awakening syndrome.

Bannon's short-term memory was now slowly returning. He remembered everyone's names. He remembered that he almost died.

He remembered that he and Bravo Team had hitched a ride aboard an Imperial Star Destroyer to their destination, LV-426. The _Sulaco's_ hyperspace capabilities were inadequate for the apparently distant journey. So, the mercenaries left the _Sulaco_ in a secure place and set up shop in a hangar on the _Adamantine's_ flight deck. It was large enough to fit everything they'd need: hibernation pods, equipment, weapons, and general supplies. They even managed to squeeze in two assault dropships. Bannon had no idea how long ago that was.

Bannon absentmindedly swirled what was left of his coffee until a vortex formed. It reminded him of the graphical representation of a black hole's gravity well. Bishop appeared next to him suddenly. "Jeez, Bishop!" Bannon spat, startled. "We'll need to put a bell on you if you keep doing that."

"I brought these for you," Bishop replied. He offered Bannon a small paper cup that contained two large white pills. "It'll help alleviate your symptoms," he said with a forced smile. "I'd start with one and then reevaluate your symptoms before taking the second."

Whenever Bishop spoke to Bannon, or anyone else for that matter, Bishop always had the same expressionless stare. Bannon found it unsettling.

Bannon grabbed the coffee pot, which had grown cold, and poured himself another cup. "Thanks," he said before throwing both pills into his mouth. He then drank his entire coffee as if it were a double shot of cheap liquor.

"Hey Bishop!" Hudson hollered enthusiastically. "Come on, man!"

Bannon watched as Bishop walked away. He wondered how long it would take the meds to kick in. He quickly discovered the answer. It hit him as suddenly as flicking on a light switch.

_Woah! I feel … great! Is it possible to feel too great?_

His euphoria quickly changed to agitation. His face felt flushed and his eyes itched. His heart raced as if here were about to have a heart attack. Restless energy compelled him to stand up suddenly. He wanted to sprint up and down the flight deck at full speed. He wanted to be punched in the face. He needed an outlet. Right now. Then he saw Hudson and Drake.

Drake had Hudson trapped in a headlock. Bishop stood over them with a large combat knife, holding it as if he were about to stab them. Drake and Bravo Team's combatives expert, Frost, goaded Bishop on.

"Do it!"

"Come on, Bishop!"

Bannon swatted Hudson's hand out of the way. "I want in!"

"Dude, yes! Thank you," Hudson said, clearly relieved.

Bishop paused. Then, he understood what was happening. "I did tell you to only take one," he teased.

"Just do it!" Bannon countered. "I need this."

Bishop shrugged and placed his own hand on top of Bannon's. He then rose the knife up then down again, moving it to each gap between Bannon's fingers. The knife came down harder and harder as Bishop's pace accelerated. The mechanical movements became a blur.

Bannon felt the blood course through his arteries as his heart beat faster than ever. He had never felt such a rush. As the knife drew closer and closer to each finger, he felt better. This was working. He realized that he was smiling. Laughing. "Come on, go faster!" he shouted.

Bishop complied. The tempo increased to nearly ten stabs a second.

Oddly enough, Bannon felt his heart rate decreasing. His eyes no longer itched. Soon, he felt calm. This was what he needed.

As suddenly as it began, it ended. Bishop brought the knife up and Bannon slowly removed his hand from Hudson's.

"That was awesome!" cheered Hudson.

"I think that worked" Bannon said. He noticed that Bishop stepped away from the table. Bannon followed and said, "What the hell did you give me?" He then noticed that Bishop's hand was wrapped in a rag.

Bishop fiddled with his hand as he replied, "Ingestible stim-packs. Long ago, we used to inject a similar compound into soldiers who had experienced brain-lock after a traumatic event in battle. It was extremely effective at curing their inability to fight. It was equally effective at triggering heart attacks. The practice has since become outdated." He removed the towel to examine his hand. Viscous, white fluid streamed down his thumb.

"I thought you never missed, Bishop," Frost mocked.

Bannon's curiosity was piqued. "Are you a droid?"

"I prefer the term 'Artificial Person' myself," Bishop replied.

A thunderous crash echoed through the hangar followed by shouting and curses.

Several crates had toppled off a cargo hauler onto the middle of the flight deck. A half dozen men in grey coveralls rushed to recover the containers. Off to the side, a pair of stormtroopers argued with a mountain of a man.

The man pointed at the toppled crates and then pointed at the lead stormtrooper. The trooper swatted away the man's hand. In a flash, the trooper was suddenly flat on his back, his bloody facemask split in half. More troopers rushed towards the incident from across the flight deck. "Set blasters to stun!" one of them yelled.

Bannon sat down next to Hicks and said, "Those guys definitely aren't Imperials."

"I think they're hired guns, like us," Hicks responded.

Bannon raised an eyebrow. "Why would they hire more than one team for the same job?"

Hicks shrugged. "They must have a unique skill set that we don't," he mused. "In certain instances, it's quicker and cheaper to hire experts than it is to train and equip your own guys to do the same thing." Hicks glanced at Bannon. "That's why we hired _**you**_."

Blasters at the ready, five stormtroopers surrounded the large man. Their fallen comrade still twitched on the ground as blood pooled around him.

"God, look at 'em," Hicks commented. "Even five-to-one, my money's on The Brute."

An Imperial officer arrived on the scene. The troopers snapped to attention and reprimands followed. Afterwards, two troopers dragged the body away. The remaining troopers hastily recovered the toppled crates. The Brute nonchalantly wiped the blood from his hands as he left the flight deck.

"So, he just killed that guy and they let him walk away like it was nothing?" Hicks asked. "Shit, these guys are no joke."

Apone's distinctive voice rang across the hangar, "Alright ladies! Gather 'round!"

Bannon turned to see Ripley and Apone standing on the other side of the hangar.

"Looks like they're back from the briefing," Hicks said.

Ripley waited until the group formed a semi-circle around her to start talking. "Alright, listen up! We're currently in orbit around a barren moon designated as LV-426. Located on the moon's surface is a secure research facility. Inside is something the Empire wants very badly. They have made it very clear that we should use any means necessary to secure it." She made eye contact with Bannon before continuing. "Bravo Team will be going in with the Imperial troopers to kick down the door. Once we gain access to the facility, we'll secure the housing, support, and admin areas. The Empire will continue deeper into the labs without us. That's as sexy as it gets."

Hudson raised his hand and asked, "Wait, there's going to be sex?"

"Secure that shit!" Apone scolded.

Ripley glared at Hudson. "I want DCS and tactical database assimilation by oh-eight-thirty. Ordnance loading, weapons strip and drop-ship prep details will have seven hours." She crossed her arms over her chest. "We are over two-hundred thousand light years from home. If we fuck this up, the Empire will leave us here to die."

"Alright sweethearts," Apone shouted. "You heard the woman and you know the drill. Assholes and elbows!"

After Bravo Team set about their designated tasks, Bannon was alone with Ripley. "So, why did we hitch a ride with the Empire to another galaxy just to split the profits with another merc team?"

Ripley considered her response before replying, "I didn't know about the other team until just now." She crossed her arms. "That's how these things go. We don't ask questions. We do what we're contracted to do, and get paid."

Bannon frowned. "Well, as long as you're comfortable with this, I guess I can be too."

"I never said I was comfortable with this. Pretty fucking far from it, actually. I need you to keep your eyes open out there. I have a feeling there's more they aren't telling us."

Bannon nodded before asking, "Is there anything you're not telling me?"

Ripley's face hardened. "I could ask you the same question. The only reason you're here now is because I trust Vriess."

Bannon was caught off guard. "I—"

"Forget it. You're here now. I expect to get what I'm paying for," Ripley said before storming off.

Bannon couldn't help but notice that Ripley never answered his question. However, he had more pressing matters to attend to and he didn't have much time.

_Six hours later in Mission Planning Room Two-Charlie…_

Major CM-1980 "Stoic" believed that all battles were won before they even started.

Stoic was bred to be a warrior for the Republic. He had mastered every weapon in both the Republic and Imperial arsenals. He could perform any battlefield function at an expert level. He rose through the enlisted ranks, earned a battlefield commission, and now held the position of Platoon Commander in the most elite fighting force in the Empire, the First Legion. The new generation of stormtroopers and officers look up to him for wisdom and guidance, both on and off the battlefield.

Stoic was designated Commander for the upcoming ground operation. With this responsibility in mind, he devoted himself entirely to mission planning since his appointment. After several hours of pouring over sensor readouts of the research facility and the surrounding area, he felt confident that he knew as much as he needed to develop his tactical playbook.

The facility was extremely isolated. Impassible geological structures surrounded the facility to the north and west. Fortifications walled off the approaches to the south and east. The inner structures were too densely clustered together to safely land within the complex. Heavy crosswinds would prevent dropships from loitering in place, which made rappelling down ropes impossible.

It was clear to Stoic that the safest option was to soft land directly onto the landing pads. There was a three-hundred-meter stretch of sloped terrain between the landing pads and the research facility. A narrow road navigated up the slope between rocky outcroppings to a security checkpoint. This was the only way in.

The facility itself consisted of no less than thirty distinct structures surrounding a large central dome. A three-dimensional maze of ground-level corridors and elevated breezeways connected each structure to one another. It would take hours to thoroughly clear and secure the surface complex. The extensiveness of the sub-surface facilities was unknown.

Since their arrival, sensor sweeps detected zero activity. All comm channels were silent. Targeting alerts remained null.

Stoic looked away from the data readouts and rubbed his eyes. He caught a glimpse of his reflection on the console screen and hardly recognized what he saw. The low light of the planning room deepened his many wrinkles and his grey hairs doubled in number since he last checked. He decided that he had done enough studying. With a tired groan, he stood up from his desk and walked to the center of the room.

"Show me the moon", Stoic commanded. A massive holographic projection of LV-426 appeared directly in front of him. He instructed the hologram to zoom until the complex was visible as a small dot on a large, curved surface. The _Adamantine_ was represented as an equally small dot suspended above the moon's surface. Terrain features, forecasted weather, and other elements rendered.

With his god's eye view complete, Stoic identified plausible avenues of approach. He traced different trajectories from the _Adamantine_ down to the target and considered their merits and drawbacks. After careful consideration, he finally selected a path.

Satisfied with his choice, Stoic switched his focus to his datapad. With it, he remotely coordinated with the armory to equip his troopers for this mission. As he refined combat loadouts for Fire Team Two, an all-too familiar voice broke his concentration.

"What are you doing in here, clone?" the pompous voice asked.

Stoic sighed. "Major Radcliffe, what a surprise this is." He saved his work and looked up from his datapad. "Are you lost? The officer's spa is on the other side of the ship."

Stoic disliked Radcliffe. The man's face was too perfect. Prominent cheek bones, angular jawline, piercing blue eyes, and blonde hair. Stoic guessed that Radcliffe spent almost as much time keeping up his complexion as he did currying favor from higherups.

Stoic grew impatient. "I have work to do. What do you want?"

Radcliffe smirked ever so slightly as he revealed a datapad of his own. After a few clicks, the hologram Stoic had created was replaced by a detailed scan of the dome's exterior. The hologram featured a visual representation of the acoustic beacon radiating from the center of the dome.

"What is this?" Stoic asked.

"I just had a private meeting with Colonel Elard." Radcliffe finally said. "He and I agreed that in light of the significance of this operation, I will assume its command—" His smirk grew— "from you. Elard demoted you to Deputy Commander."

Stoic was stunned. The units under Radcliffe's command had the highest casualty rates in the entire Imperial Army, particularly amongst clone troopers. Conscript regiments used in suicide attacks had better chances at survival. He couldn't understand why Colonel Elard would do this.

Stoic bit back a pang of rage. "Congratulations, Major," he replied calmly. "I look forward to working with you."

"Thank you, _**Deputy**_," Radcliffe replied with false charm. "But that won't be necessary. In fact, I am relieving you of all responsibilities and authorities relating to this operation. Surrender your datapad." He held out his hand expectantly.

Stoic furrowed his brow. He couldn't let this continue. "Commander, with all due respect, your methods are as much a threat to my troopers as whatever dangers we'll find down there. You show natural talent. Let me guide you. My methods are tried and true so as to avoid unnecessary casualties."

Radcliffe dropped his hand and stepped forward to look down upon Stoic. "Who are you to determine what is necessary?" Radcliffe asked with malice.

Stoic kept his cool. "I am your senior. By the time you enrolled at the Academy, I had already led the liberation of over two dozen systems from the Federation. I commanded thousands of troopers in my day, and each of their lives were—"

"Their lives?" Radcliffe mocked. "Their lives are worthless. You clones were born with only one purpose. To die. The conscripts that replace your dwindling numbers are no different. I only care about one thing. Results." Radcliffe raised his eyebrows. "You will do best to remember that, Deputy."

Stoic's worst fears were confirmed. The old ways were truly dead. His anger rose once more. He didn't temper it this time. "You're a damned coward unworthy of the rank you wear so proudly."

Radcliffe scoffed. "At last, your true feelings come out. I prefer that to your insufferable politeness." He held out his hand once again. "You are dismissed."

Stoic slammed his datapad into Radcliffe's open hand and departed without another word. A lot of troopers were going to die. He had to do anything and everything he could to prevent that.


	5. Chapter 5: Express Elevator to Hell

LN Dean FanFiction

**Chapter 5: Express Elevator to Hell**

_Forty minutes later…_

The _Adamantine_ reached low orbit. Below, the eternal storm raged on.

Bravo Team hastily made final preparations for the combat drop. Frost loaded and inspected pulse rifles. Vasquez and Drake drilled. Ferro and Spunkmeyer primed the dropship for flight.

Bannon stood at the center of the hangar observing the action. His freshly cleaned blaster sat at the ready in its holster. A brand-new tactical pack, courtesy of Hicks, clung tightly to his back. Inside was his Widget, a small personal med-kit, a three-liter bladder of water, four meals-ready-to-eat, and a few other essentials. He also had a few new gadgets.

Fueled by Bishop's stim-packs, Bannon rapidly designed, fabricated and tested all the equipment he needed. If it weren't for the negative side effects, he'd probably use stim-packs more often. It also helped that Bravo Team's tech lab was surprisingly well stocked and organized. Bannon had Hudson, of all people, to thank for that. Bannon wished the people he used to work with were as competent at their jobs. Maybe he wouldn't be about to risk his life for a fraction of his former salary if they were.

Bannon felt pride in what he had created. Located in his jacket's inner pockets were ten "Quick Sticks"—expendable wireless transmitters that linked to the Widget. Once plugged in to a network terminal, he could do his job at a safe distance. He also had three EMP grenades fabricated from older electrical equipment. They clung to a tactical vest worn underneath his jacket along with a spare power pack and tibanna gas cartridges for his blaster.

Bannon called his favorite invention his "Shades." When worn, they allowed him to command the Widget, and everything controlled by the Widget, using only his eyes and voice. His Shades also featured an interactive augmented reality heads-up display projected upon the inner lenses. In an instant, he'd have access to petabytes of stored information and could analyze anything he looked at.

Despite his level of preparedness, the pit of Bannon's stomach felt like it was weighted with lead. He was about to combat drop from an Imperial star destroyer into a secret research facility in an alien galaxy.

His Shades alerted Bannon that someone had appeared behind him. Glad for the distraction, he turned to see Ripley. Decked from head to toe in combat gear and armed with a pulse rife slung over her shoulder, she looked ready to kick ass.

Ripley looked Bannon up and down and said, "You look ready." She then raised an eyebrow and asked, "Do you _**feel**_ ready?"

Bannon considered the question. The only reply he could think of was, "Yeah."

Ripley smiled. She knew he was full of it. "Right, sure." She gestured towards him and said, "I like the new gear. I'm sure it will be a worthwhile investment."

Before Bannon could reply, the dropship's engines roared to life. In the distance, Apone's thunderous voice carried over the racket. "Alright people, on the ready line! Are ya lean?"

"Yeah!" Bravo Team yelled in unison.

"Are ya mean?" Apone shouted, louder than before.

"Yeah!"

"WHAT ARE YOU?"

"Lean and mean!"

"WHAT ARE YOU?"

"Lean and mean!"

Apone rallied the troops over to an armored personnel carrier. "Aaarrrrr! Absolutely _**badasses!**_" he declared as he marched towards the APC's hatch. He slid it open with a loud '_clank._' He jumped in and yelled, "Let's pack 'em in! Get in there!" One by one, Bravo Team loaded into the vehicle.

Bannon took a deep breath. He decided he was ready. Or at least as ready as he ever would be.

Ripley unshouldered her pulse rifle. She gestured the weapon forward and said, "After you."

Two fully loaded LAAT infantry transports lifted off the deck and slowly made their way towards the ventral docking bay.

The repulsorlift transports easily navigated through the compact interior of the flight deck with expert precision. Behind them, a cargo crane hauled the technologically inferior mercenary dropship along a mechanical track.

As the transports crossed the half-kilometer-long distance, Flight Lead ran through his flight checklist. "Hangar Command, this is Flight Lead. Request permission for formation to exit the ventral bay."

Hangar Command replied, "Permission has been granted. Proceed at your current rate then follow the updated nav-points upon your exit. Sending the updated flight plan to you now."

Flight Lead groaned. "Copy that, Hangar Command. Stand by." After he finished reviewing the new flight plan, he said, "Flight Lead approves. Lander One and Lander Two will comply as directed. Stand by for confirmation from Lander Three." The pilot then adjusted his comm unit. "Lander Three, comm-check. The flight plan has been updated and transmitted to you. Please acknowledge."

Static filled the line before the mercenary pilot responded, "This is Lander Three, call sign Bug-Stomper. We confirm your last." More static followed momentarily. "…I repeat, we will _**not**_ comply with the updated flight plan."

Flight Lead was stunned. No one had ever rejected a flight plan before. "Bug-Stomper, please justify your noncompliance."

"Lander One—" sass apparent in the pilot's voice— "We will comply with the original flight plan, generated by whoever MC-1980 is. The updated flight plan fails to account for the differences in our propulsion to yours.

"Please explain."

"Well, for one, the _Adamantine_ is not technically in orbit around LV-426. Rather, it's fixed in real-space above the surface independent of the natural laws of motion thanks to its magic engines. Second, our transport does not use fancy repulsorlift engines like yours does. When we deploy, we will literally _**drop**_ from the _Adamantine_ straight to the planet's center of gravity, requiring us to maneuver to— I hope I don't need to explain orbital mechanics to you… How copy?"

Flight Lead ran the numbers. The original flight plan was correct. "Understood. Bug-Stomper, Flight Lead approves. Lander One and Lander Two will follow the updated flight plan. Bug-Stomper will follow the previous flight plan."

"Copy."

Flight Lead toggled his comm unit back to the Imperial frequency to update Hangar Command about the new plan. He then resumed running his checklist. By the time the LAATs came to a halt over the hangar exit, he had finished.

"Lander One, Lander Two, this is Hangar Command. You are clear to depart."

In unison, the LAATs slowly descended through the shield door. Once they were clear, they zoomed away, and the cargo crane positioned the mercenary dropship over the exit.

"Lander Three, clear to depart."

"Copy, Hangar Command. Initiate release sequencer on my mark. Five… Four…."

"We're on an express elevator to hell!" Hudson cheered. "GOIN' DOWN!"

Bannon tensed all the muscles in his body.

Ferro's voice carried over the APC's comm, "Two… One… Mark!"

Bannon felt his balls lift off his chair as the vehicle plunged from the Adamantine's ventral bay. Hudson whooped as the dropship fell, rapidly gaining speed. The dropship pitched over, and the main thrusters ignited. Bannon flew back into his seat. Turbulence violently jolted the dropship as it screamed past the mesosphere into the stratosphere. The experience was both exhilarating and terrifying.

"Switching to DCS ranging," said Ferro blandly. For her, this was just another flight.

Behind the Pilot's chair, Spunkmeyer busily performed his duties as Crew Chief. "Two-four-oh. Nominal profile."

As the stratosphere gave way to the troposphere, the dropship leveled out and assumed a linear trajectory that rode just below the storm clouds. Ferro deployed the weapons pods and the dropship continued on towards the landing zone.

Lander One and Lander Two raced along their waypoints in a tight formation.

Each LAAT held thirty troopers in their holds. Vader and Radcliffe flew aboard Lander One with First Platoon. Stoic rode in Lander Two with Second Platoon.

Since Stoic was demoted to Deputy, Radcliffe further removed him from any semblance of command by assigning him the role of Element Leader. Though he technically retained the appointment of Deputy Commander from Colonel Elard, Stoic found himself subordinate to a Squad Leader. Each Squad Leader was subordinate to a Platoon Leader, who in turn, was subordinate to the Commander. This made the chain of command as clear as mud.

For Radcliffe, however, the chain of command did not exist. He micromanaged everyone and controlled everything. The bastard would have imprisoned Flight Lead if Stoic had not stepped in and pointed out that the laws of physics took precedence.

Despite the sorry state of affairs, Stoic took comfort in the fact that he was surrounded by the best of the best. Second Platoon was a blended unit of veteran clones and younger recruits. Every trooper in the First Legion had proven their worth in battle, but Second Platoon had some real heavy hitters in its ranks.

The first was Sergeant First Class CT-9791 "Whiskey." He specialized in heavy weaponry. Larger and stronger than the average clone by two standard deviations, Whiskey could haul an anti-vehicle cannon up a mountain by himself.

Next was Master Sergeant RC-2088 "Vector." By far the deadliest clone alive, he could bullseye the wart off a womp rat from a kilometer away using iron sites alone. As the designated marksman, Vector provided the platoon with accurate support fire at range using a scout version of a DC-15A blaster rifle.

Finally, there was Warrant Officer WT-6102 "Socket." An old friend of Stoic's, Socket functioned both as a mechanic and as a medic for Second Platoon. After losing his left arm during the battle for Felucia, Socket had accumulated enough robotic implants and prosthetics to build a functioning droid.

The achievements of these clones humbled Stoic. He would gladly walk through hell blindfolded knowing that they were watching his back. Many of the younger troopers felt the same.

Lander Two's pilot sounded off over the vehicle's command comm, "Sir, the mercenary dropship has just appeared on our sensors. Their trajectory is green and we're right on schedule. We're on our final approach to the drop zone. ETA two minutes."

"Copy that," Stoic replied. "Deploy the side doors." He then toggled the comm to transmit to all the troopers in Lander Two. "Prepare for landing. When we land, immediately disperse by the numbers and cover your sectors. Stay frosty."

"Ten credits says someone slips and eats it," Whiskey quipped.

"Twenty credits says it's you," Socket countered. "Because I pushed you."

"Comedy's not your strength, Socket," Whiskey replied.

"No, you're right. But throwing you off this transport is."

"Clear all unnecessary chatter," Stoic commanded.

The side doors unlocked and slid outward with a hydraulic howl. As they retracted, the wind bombarded Stoic's visor with water droplets. A twilight haze obstructed the landscape below. Stoic's helmet automatically adjusted its hyperspectral imager to allow his vision to penetrate through the atmospheric moisture. Below him, volcanic outcroppings came into view and whizzed by at a rate of nearly 500 kilometers per hour.

The pilot called out, "ETA, ten seconds!"

Up ahead, landing beacons came into view, followed by running lights and the silhouettes of each structure. Lander Two decelerated to 200 kilometers per hour and banked hard into a wide clockwise orbit around the complex. The starboard sensor pod swiveled and scanned the surroundings in search of threats.

"It's clean and green," the pilot commented after completing a full orbit around the facility's outer perimeter. "It's totally clear."

"Perform another orbit," Stoic replied. "Let's be sure that—"

"Belay that order," Radcliffe interjected. "We're wasting time. Land and deploy immediately."

"Yes, Commander," the pilot acknowledged.

Stoic shook his head. Lander Two aggressively maneuvered towards the landing area. As the transport decelerated to zero speed, Lander One swooped under Lander Two into Stoic's view. With the side doors retracted, Vader stood out from the rest of the crowd.

Stoic turned to face the troopers. He had their full attention. "Remember, Third Squad will create a defensive perimeter around the dropship. Fourth Squad will push on through to secure the landing zone. No one goes any further until the mercenaries do their job."

Lander Two descended until it was less than a meter off the ground. Stoic leaped from the transport, landing lightly, and pressed forward. Third Squad joined him to form a defensive perimeter as Fourth Squad pushed on passed them. First and Second Squad from First Platoon performed similar maneuvers around their landing zone. Fully unloaded, Lander One and Lander Two took to the sky to stand by for close air support.

Stoic took a knee and scanned his sectors of fire with his blaster at the ready. Each second that passed felt like an eternity. After a full minute, Stoic felt confident that the landing area had been secured.

Whiskey broke the silence. "So far, so good…"

"Contact!"

Stoic's heads up display identified the speaker as TK-4617.

"Contact," TK-4617 repeated. "Sector Three!"

Stoic and all the troopers responsible for Sector Three pivoted to see the unidentified threat. From a building directly East, came three large objects slowly making their way towards the defensive perimeter.

"I have eyes," said Vector looking through his rifle scope. "Cargo haulers. They appear to be unmanned."

"TK-4617, confirm Vector's assessment." Stoic ordered. "Are they a threat?"

Vector covered TK-4617 as she crossed the distance towards the nearest hauler. The hauler sensed her approach and came to a halt. After completing a 360 around the vehicle, the trooper got a closer look. "Confirmed! It's a droid," she said. "Empty cargo space. No threat detected."

After TK-4617 finished her inspection, the cargo hauler resumed its course. More cargo haulers came from a large warehouse located east of the landing pad. Stoic had them checked as well.

"Our landing must have prompted this response," Socket said. "Makes me think that freight is the only thing they expect to arrive. No visitors."

"Does this look like a place people would want to visit?" Whiskey quipped.

In short order, all of the haulers had been inspected and cleared. Stoic's knees cracked as he stood up. "Alright, the landing area is secure. CT-2124, I recommend you take your squad to secure the warehouse. LS-7193, I recommend your squad remain in place to maintain security."

"Yes, sir."

"Right away, sir."

A loud roar caught Stoic's attention. It was the mercenary dropship, Bug-Stomper.

"Well then," said Stoic disapprovingly. "Let's see what these merc scum have to offer the First Legion…"

11


End file.
